


The Grittylorian

by eag



Category: Gritty - Fandom, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Crossover, Crossover, Domestic Fluff, Food, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Gritty, Gritty chooses violence, Gritty wields a t-shirt cannon, Humor, I regret everything, Other, Sheet Cakes as Weapons, Sorry Not Sorry, You Better Watch Out, fuck around and find out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27903961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eag/pseuds/eag
Summary: Do you ever make poor life choices?  Do you ever think, I made this decision and I have lived long enough to regret it?  Do you ever make poor choices that turn out to be kind of awesome once you do something about it?Do you dream about the Mandalorian having space adventures with Gritty in the Razor Crest, in the style of Han Solo and Chewbacca on the Millennium Falcon?  Do you ever wonder where the Child is during an adventure, only to realize that the Child has been hiding under Gritty's beard the whole time?  Do you ever want to...fuck around and find out?If so, this is for you.  If not...leave while you still can.  You've been warned.
Relationships: The Child & Gritty, The Mandalorian & Gritty, The Mandalorian & The Child
Comments: 24
Kudos: 23





	1. The Customer

**Author's Note:**

> Conceived in the dark days of November, 2020...
> 
> Updates weekly.

“So what blows you in, stranger?” The server clicked mandibles together underneath a cloth mask in a scolding manner as the Mandalorian stepped inside the diner, followed by a closed pod floating at his side. “Don’t you know there’s a revolution going on? There are protests all over the streets these days. It’s plague season too, so you better watch out. Though...wait, you got an exoskeleton but you’re human aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh good, for a sec I was afraid I was saying something offensive to someone who doesn’t deserve being called human. You’re fine, plague don’t affect you. Only affects insectoids like me.” The server’s multifaceted unblinking eyes gauged the Mandalorian curiously. “Got no biological exoskeleton, got nothing to worry about exoskeleton rot. You meatlings have your exoskeletons on the inside. Weird, very weird, kind of gross and creepy, but I don’t judge.”

The Mandalorian looked around the diner, pausing at the taped off seats at the counter, but the server continued to talk. “Spreads through the air, real nasty. If it gets on your mandibles, you’re a goner. Anywhere else it’s fine but mandibles are the weak point for some reason. Can’t even properly groom yourself this time of year, gotta use sanitizers and mechanical groomers if you wanna keep your mandibles clean. Gotta wear masks if you don’t want to get the exoskeleton rot. Kills one in fifty, sometimes even more. If you get it. Spreads like...well, the plague.”

“If there’s a plague and a revolution, then why are you open?”

“Obviously got nothin better to do than draw minimum wage and try not to die. Sides, gotta keep the economy going, amirite?” The server’s close-tucked wings buzzed in a humorous manner. Or at least made a sound that resembled something that might have been humor. It was hard to tell with all the strange buzzing. “What can I do you for?” 

The Mandalorian paused, before recognizing this as an invitation to order food. “What do you have?”

“Cookie makes a good omelet. Set dinner comes with a hot drink and a slice of fruit pie.”

“I’ll have one of those.” 

“Hey, Cookie!” The server shouted. “One ommy with a side of everything, and make it snappy!”

No reply, but for the tap-tap crack of eggshells and the metallic clunk of a pan. A glimpse of a tall figure that moved quickly through the kitchen, but it was no more than a shadow, a silhouette, nothing that could be made out clearly.

“So where you wanna sit to eat, stranger? Counter seats are for insectoids, but we got some human booths open if you want to sit. We got a lot of humans on our planet. More every year. They breed like humans.”

“It’s not for me. It’s for my friend.” The little floating pod opened up and the Child stared out, wide eyes surveying the diner in wonder. By the entryway, the exoskeletal density detectors, the mechanical claw cleaning station, and the antennae-sanitizing station. The entire room smelled faintly of insectoid sanitizer, a not-unpleasant earthy scent. Posted on the wall, the list of items that could be bought, foods and drinks all labeled out in a strange loopy script. The long berth of slim windows that lined the wall, the long counter with tall seats parallel to the windows, three quarters of the seats carefully taped off. Midway down the restaurant, a small gray creature in a lumpy, shapeless, colorless robe sat alone at the counter, staring at a hot drink, face obscured by a mask and the rising steam. In the corner closest to the front entry, the exoskeleton polish station and behind that, the entrance to the kitchen. The Child looked around the way the Mandalorian always did, to see where the entrance was, where the exits were, and where someone could be hiding.

“Your larva?”

“A larva.” The Mandalorian picked a designated human booth next to the exoskeleton polish station, between the entry and the door to the kitchen where there were no windows. He sat down and looked up at the wall decorated with a mosaic of glistening black seeds that gleamed in the cool white light of the diner.

“Aww. They’re always kind of lumpy and ugly before they pupate, aren’t they? All right, give us a shout if you want anything.”

“Wait. Before you go.” The Mandalorian paused, uncertain if he should ask, but then realized that this was probably the best opportunity that he’d have, with an ordinary worker who was so open to talking. “Do many people come through here?”

“Usually packed. It’s all messed up because of plague season, I tell you, makes folks antsy even when they’re just humans, why I-”

“Then have you seen another human like me? I was told...there was another like me in this city.”

“Like you?” The server’s mandibles clicked thoughtfully beneath the veil of its mask. “No, sorry. We get all types going through. I mean, we might be Outer Rim but this is still a trade port after all. No, real sorry mister. Can’t say I’ve seen another. So uh, you want that hot drink now? It’s boiled grain water, plain but nutritious.”

“Sure.” The Mandalorian sat back. Outside, the black rain fell heedless, streaking inky liquid down the windows and the world buzzed with the sound of massive wings.


	2. The Cook

The Mandalorian watched as the Child ate the last sticky remnants of the pie with both hands, oozing syrupy sweet clear gelatinous fruit that plopped purpley onto the scratched surface of the chipped ceramic plate. 

“Still hungry?” He asked, watching the Child lick purple-stained fingers.

The Child looked up at him imploringly, and the Mandalorian nodded, gesturing to the server who scuttled right over. 

“The omelet looked good. I’ll have another dinner set. Pack it up for me, I’ll eat it later.” 

“Sure thing, let me just go-” But before the server could continue speaking, both the front and rear doors of the diner were simultaneously smashed in, and a rush of heavily masked men filled the small space.

The Mandalorian looked up. Six men, no women. Their green and black exoskeletal armour suggested military, but they were ordinary humans and not the tall, delicately fragile insectoids that were native to this planet. A bunch of hired mercenaries, perhaps? Or something else.

That was when he saw their badges.

With his left hand he very slowly and deliberately pushed the floating pod the Child was in down, below the level of the table.

The Child peered up at him quizzically before peeking out at the security officers from beneath the table.

“Hey, hey now. Whoa.” All four of the server’s spindly arms went up. “Whoa there. You guys got the wrong place. We pay our taxes here like everyone else and we follow the law. Law says we gotta be open to the public 12 hours a day, and we’re open. Look! We even got customers, so don’t you be chasing them off before they can pay-”

“We’re not here for you.” The Mandalorian guessed that this was the probable leader of the security forces, the one man who wore the black helmet, gleaming like an insect carapace.

A glissando of electronic notes, all starting at the same pitch but bending upwards until the note disappeared out the range of human hearing as blaster rifles were raised and armed, and a jolt of adrenaline ran through the Mandalorian before he realized that the head officer was pointing elsewhere.

“We’re here for her,” the man said, his voice harsh and commanding.

The small gray creature at the bar who had pulled the hood of her robe over her head and had been keeping her head down, seemed to tense all over, trembling. A rancid scent filled the room, the rank stench of larval fear.

“But she’s just a larva-” the server protested.

“She was participating in a prohibited group gathering and breaching plague regulations with a bunch of other protestors and then ran away in a suspicious manner. We’re only doing this to protect the personal safety of the larvae,” the lead officer sneered. “After all, you know that we are concerned about youngsters participating in prohibited group gatherings.”

The officers moved in, rifles aimed at the young insectoid. The Mandalorian looked away. This was not his fight. The security doings and dealings of a port city on a trade planet was none of his concern.

But, that didn’t mean it wasn’t someone else’s fight.

A clanging clatter came up in the kitchen and immediately the officers turned their heads toward that sound.

“Cookie! Keep it down in there, don’t you know there’s cops-”

SPLAT! A sheet cake came flying out of nowhere, whose sheer velocity slammed the closest officer to the kitchen onto the ground. SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT. The next three cakes hit their targets just as accurately, knocking down their targets, sending the last two untouched officers diving to the ground.

The Mandalorian showed no surprise in the movement of his body, but he could feel his facial muscles grimace involuntarily; this was no accident. The officers that had been knocked down that were still conscious were scrabbling at their greasy cake and frosting-splattered helmets, trying to take them off; the cakes looked very ordinary but something about their sugary, buttery composition seemed like it was scrambling the electronic input/output, rendering the officers effectively blind, mute, and deaf. Their actions looked panicked, but there was no sound that came from them other than the frantic sound of boots scrabbling on the ground and the thump of their knees and elbows against the walls and furniture.

“Back up! We need back up!” The lead officer shouted, but the other man who had escaped the cake barrage gestured futilely.

“Don’t look at me, I’m not the comm man! Comm’s over there!” He pointed to the officer furthest away who had before he was knocked down, been inching toward the kitchen entry. That man was now fully unconscious beneath a broken pile of chocolate and buttercream. 

“Then get the comm, idiot!” The lead officer hissed. “I’ll cover you.” 

Blaster rifle at the ready, the lead officer stood and began a barrage of fire at the open window of the kitchen. In the commotion, the Mandalorian watched as the server ducked under the closest table and the larva slipped out the back. The other officer crawled along the ground, using the counter as a shield until that ran out, and he crouched at the corner of the counter, rifle in hand, unsure of whether he should make a run for it.

“Just go for it!” The lead officer snapped. “It’s just cake!”

A shiny green helmet stared at the Mandalorian, at the dark and empty frame of the kitchen entry, and at the fallen comm device, just out of reach. 

The lead officer raised his voice. “Under orders of the Free City of Ruqke you are hereby charged with-”

Just then, the remnants of the broken back door flew inwards in a shower of shrapnel and a tall silhouette appeared, Wookiee-tall, having to bend its head to get inside. A flash of orange fur, and a scream as the lead officer went down, knee shattered, clinging to his hurt limb where a long white oblong object had hit it, snapping the exoskeletal armour at the joint. The massive weapon was bigger than a heavy repeater cannon, and yet the creature wielding it lifted it lightly as if it weighed nothing. 

“Oh no...no...it’s you!” The lead officer’s voice was full of fear. “Treasonous rebel scum! Wanted for attending protests, wearing a flag bikini with a rude slogan, throwing sheet cakes, punching a thirteen year old boy…and that’s just on this planet!”

The creature stepped forward, unblinking eyes with an unwavering gaze, mouth frozen in a perpetual smiling grimace. 

“Gritty!”


	3. The Agreement

With a thunk, another white oblong object hit its target. With the black carapace of his helmet cracked, the lead officer crumpled to the ground, silent. 

Large furred finger on the trigger, ready to fire once more, Gritty looked around but was unable to see where the last officer was, moving forward with trepidation.

But the Mandalorian could see.

The last officer was nearly at his target, the comm device just past the exoskeletal polisher, not far from where the Mandalorian sat. But as Gritty’s deliberate steps clomped closer, the man reached for his rifle and propped himself up to a sitting position, hiding behind the back edge of a booth where the Mandalorian sat, in front of the large open maw of the exoskeleton polisher.

The Mandalorian realized that Gritty could not see the waiting ambush, now that the officer was using him as a human shield. The tall orange creature stepped forward, not knowing where the officer was. 

Just then the officer sprang to his feet, his blaster rifle aimed at Gritty. 

And in one smooth motion, the Mandalorian reached back and shoved the man into the exoskeleton polisher. The machine closed around the officer with a clang, and began to hum. From inside, screams and the sound of banging fists, yet the humming sound grew higher and higher in pitch, drowning out the noises of desperation within.

“Fifteen minute cycle,” the server said from under the table, before scuttling out on clacking feet. “Standard cycle is fifteen minutes. Costs five hundred credits. It’s an old one. Once you go in, it won’t open again until it’s done. Hardly anyone ever uses it anymore. They say it’s an unsafe model.” The server’s mandibles clicked together in amusement beneath the cloth mask.

“I should settle up and get going,” the Mandalorian said, getting up but Gritty shook a furry orange head firmly. Gesturing to the server, Gritty explained that the cost should be taken out of Gritty’s own wages.

“For a guy who don’t talk,” the server said, “Gritty sure gets in a lot of trouble. All right, fine. Don’t forget, he ordered some food to go too.”

Gritty nodded and stepped back into the kitchen briefly to come out with a package.

The Child stood up in the pod to look, making some pleased sounding babble.

“What do I owe you?” The Mandalorian asked.

Gritty’s answering response was oddly eloquent, and the Mandalorian understood, wholly and completely. Though the orange creature did not use any particular signed language such as the Tusken Raiders or any number of other non-human humanoids might, it was strange how clear Gritty’s nonverbal language was. To the Mandalorian, it reminded him of something from his past, something that he couldn’t quite remember, as though it were the memory of a memory...

“All right, let’s go.” No use dawdling. He could think later. The Mandalorian handed the package to the Child. “Don’t eat that.”

The Child gave him a look and burped.

The server opened the register and dumped the contents in a bag, tossing it to Gritty. “Couple weeks worth in here. That’s the manager’s problem if she don’t clear it out on the regular. Should cover any back wages due with a bonus for saving our lives. Don’t worry, if the manager asks, I’ll tell her the cops took it. They confiscate anything they want. You better get out of here, Cookie. They’ll hunt you down no matter where you try to hide on this planet. Maybe even in this system. Best get going, it’s not safe here for you here anymore.”

Gritty’s shoulders fell in a poignant gesture of disappointment and defeat.

“Bug’s right you know. It’s not safe for you anywhere, you piece of sh-” A feeble voice came from underneath the table. It was the lead officer and peering out through the cracked helmet with a glaring bloodshot eye, he brought his blaster rifle up. 

Simultaneously, the rifle was blasted out of the lead officer’s hands and the man fell back, cracked helmet slamming into the ground, shattered. Unconscious, the lead officer oozed blood onto his pale skin from his nose.

“Thanks,” said the Mandalorian, and at that same moment, Gritty turned to nod an appreciative thanks to the Mandalorian. 

The Mandalorian slipped his blaster back into its holster, just as Gritty lowered the massive weapon.

“Stranger, if you got a ship or know someone who does, maybe you could take Cookie- uh, that is, Gritty with you?” The server said. “Gritty’s been good to us here for a long time, but he’s not safe here anymore.”

The Mandalorian was just about to say no, but then he saw the Child beaming up at the giant orange creature, who waved shyly back.

“Just as far as the next system,” The Mandalorian said, reluctantly. “But it won’t be cheap.”

Gritty shrugged, hefting the sack of credit chips.

“Looks like you reached an understanding. Well, if you go out the back and down through the alley past the...” the server paused, antennae springing up almost comically. “Something’s coming.” 

The server scurried under a table just as a second rush of security officers rushed in from both back and front entrances, pinning the Mandalorian and Gritty between two six-member squads of armed men. 

“Drop your weapons!” 

“You, in the armour, take off your helmet!”

The two glanced at each other. In a moment of understanding, both quickly turned, back to back with the other, weapons drawn and ready.

Laser fire erupted in the diner.

When it was over, they walked back to the spaceport together. The rain had stopped and left the ground sticky and black-smeared. Above, a feeble but clear light from the system’s closest star broke through the heavy, oppressive clouds. The Mandalorian strode forth, cape fluttering in the wind, and at his side Gritty lumbered, a big black duffel bag slung over one furry orange shoulder and that absurdly large cannon slung over the other. The Child floated between them in the pod, still clutching a slightly dented box of packaged food.

“What’s that shoot?” The Mandalorian asked, pointing to the heavy weapon. 

Gritty gestured and pantomimed, and the Mandalorian nodded. 

“T-shirts. Just t-shirts. You’re right, they are cheaper than blaster fuel cells. Found everywhere where there are human-shaped creatures, which is everywhere. And then you roll them up tightly? And pack them into the cannon. Dense enough to break bone at high velocity, devastating at close range...”


	4. The Ball

Had the Mandalorian looked behind him, he would have seen the planet they were leaving. He would have seen the long shadows thrown by the mountains over the glistening seas, the hazy layers of atmosphere above, fragile veils of mist and fog that were the only thing keeping the living from oblivion.

But he did not look back. He never did. Though, he did look to his right, and there, the strange orange creature sat, the Child resting on a bulging belly against the broad chest clad in an orange tunic banded with black and white. A mysterious sigil was emblazoned on the front of the tunic, staring out with a baleful unblinking eye but it meant nothing to the Mandalorian.

The Child burbled sweetly, a happy sound. 

Don’t get too attached, the Mandalorian thought, but didn’t say it. 

The strange creature called Gritty seemed to be resting, breathing coming slow and even. Unblinking eyes wiggled but did not waver, and the mouth stayed in its bright grimace of a smile. A helmet, the Mandalorian thought, and not a very good one; the eyes jiggled comically when the head moved, the bright fur was too synthetic of a shade, nothing like the natural colors of a Wookiee or an Ewok. It seemed altogether a ridiculous contrivance to wear such a suit. 

His hand briefly moved over his breastplate of beskar, and he thought of all the times that the armour had protected him. But that synthetic fur protected nothing; whoever was inside was always at risk of being shot or stabbed or hit by shrapnel. It seemed foolish and mad.

And yet, human or humanoid, whoever was inside was a proven warrior.

The Mandalorian looked away. No time to wonder yet. They still had to make it to hyperspace. He gazed over the control panel, augmented with information from his helmet. Everything was normal.

He engaged the hyperdrive. Nothing happened.

Again, he tried it, changing the ship’s operating parameters, switching the ship to another permutation of the correct settings for hyperdrive. Still nothing. 

A third setting reorientation, and nothing. There were no more past that, unless he wanted to try the first two again so the Mandalorian sat back. They would need to make an other stop for repairs, and soon. But not to where they had just left; that was no longer an option, now that he had a fugitive on board. 

“Better get some rest. Hyperdrive is down. Again.”

The Mandalorian sat back in the seat, resting the weight of his helmeted head against the back of the seat. Slowly he took stock of his body in that old and practised way that felt like second nature to him, moving every muscle and joint one at a time fractionally, just to make certain nothing had been broken or strained in the fight. Often it took hours before he felt an injury, like that time it took him almost a day to realize he had been clipped by a blaster wielded by an angry Gungan. Besides that, no matter how strong it was, the beskar only protected so much and sometimes was the cause of bruises. Along the edges of the fine metal, the beskar sometimes bruised his flesh if he received a blow in just the right way. 

But after taking stock of his body, he realized it was no more than just bruises, nothing to be concerned about. He exhaled, a long steady and steadying breath. At least it saved on fuel. It was going to be a long journey to the next port planet.

Tap, tap, tap...tink. The Mandalorian woke slowly to a strange plinking sound. He turned his head gently to his right, expecting to see the Child. Realizing the seat was empty, the Mandalorian was on his feet in a flash, heading back into the hold of the ship.

Giggles and the same tap, tap, tap, tink. 

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tink. The round metal ball rolled into a cup, after having been dropped, rolling and bouncing against objects until it landed in its destination. Cheerfully, the Child clapped together tiny hands with a squeal of excitement.

“I told you not to play with that,” the Mandalorian said irritably. Gritty retrieved the ball and handed it to the Child, who carefully set it down. The pitch of the ship meant that it would roll toward the cabin, but timing it with the gentle motion of the ship, the metal ball bounced against the metal-shod bottom of Gritty’s outstretched boot, a support strut of the ship, rolled along the length of a carefully placed metal pole, pinged against the outer edge of another support strut, and then-

The Mandalorian intercepted the ball with his booted foot before it could roll into the cup, sweeping it up in his hand. 

“It’s not a toy.” 

He turned to return it where it belonged, a knob grip screwed onto the proper lever. Walking back into the hold he picked up the dented box of food. Pausing for a moment, uncertain, he frowned to himself and then climbed down the ladder to the lower deck, ducking into his quarters, closing the door behind him so that he could eat in peace. 

The silence that the door created was familiar but something about it seemed hollow.

Unsealing his helmet, he took it off and ate his cold food in a sort of sad mash, the pie having leaked over onto the omelet, bits of clear gelatinous fruit in a purple jam dotting the congealed eggs. 

The fruit was sweet. The omelet was plain but well-made, and probably would have been particularly delicious were it still hot.

And yet, it still tasted pretty good.


	5. The Home Cook

Uncertain of the stranger, the Mandalorian ate and drank quickly even though he knew logically that if something went awry, he could be by the Child’s side in a flash. He knew exactly how long it would take for the door open, and exactly how quickly he could go up the ladder and many steps it was to the Child’s side, just from hearing the sound of the Child’s burbling squeal of joy. 

He ate a little less than half the food. The Child was always hungry, still growing and needed more. He would be fine. Though he was still hungry, he merely drank more water, taking one last swig before wiping his mouth and putting his helmet back on, sealing it against his skin. Though it lacked the vibrancy of color of the unfiltered world, there was something calming and comforting about the enclosure of the helmet.

He opened the door to his quarters and carrying the box of food with him, climbed the ladder back up to the upper deck. He peered over the edge of the deck before ducking back down and taking a moment to steady himself.

They had moved to a new game, where Gritty was dancing, rotating a comically padded stomach in a way mean to be an unsettling parody of the sensual dance of a Twi'lek slave dancer. 

The Mandalorian silently huffed a sigh, and then made his way onto the upper deck.

“Enough,” he said, his voice stern but cool.

Gritty stopped dancing, shoulders falling with exaggerated dismay. The Child looked up at him with a look of disappointment.

“Time to eat.” The Mandalorian handed the Child the rest of the food, and dancing forgotten, the child dug into the leftovers with glee.

Gritty pointed to the Child and pointed to the Mandalorian. Hungry? Or so it seemed that that was what Gritty was asking.

The Mandalorian shook his head. “No, I’m fine.” But then his disloyal stomach betrayed him with a growl.

Gritty crossed hairy arms and shook that bearded head with disappointment, signaling that it was obvious that they were both still hungry and that it wasn’t that big of an omelet or that filling of a piece of pie though hot grain drinks were always very good and nutritious.

“Look, there’s not much I can do about that. I don’t have much right now and the credits that I do have need to pay for repairing and refueling the ship-”

Gritty gestured with both hands, a sign of negation. Enough. And immediately proceeded to pull out the large duffel bag that had been brought along from the restaurant. The Mandalorian knew that the bag of credits was in there, but not what else might be in there.

It turned out that Gritty had also taken quite an amount of valuable stocks of food. The Mandalorian’s eyes widened; on the right planet, it would be worth a fortune.

“Needs storage. But I don’t have a place to cook it. You could-”

And Gritty gestured, eloquently, going through the motions of a pantomime.

“Yes, that’s true. Changing the settings on the carbonite freezer could in theory turn it into a regular food storage unit. And yes, I don’t have any bounties in the hold so-”

Gritty nodded and without a word headed toward the back storage area.

“Wait!” 

Clang! Bang! Thump! Things went flying as Gritty rummaged through the storage area. Alarmed, the Mandalorian ran over to see what was going on, stumbling to a halt in the doorway leading to the storage area.

For a moment the Mandalorian was speechless, but then he found his voice. “I didn’t know we had a kitchen.”

Gritty nodded, pleased, and pointed to the modified carbonite freezer that had been turned into food storage, the grill top, the oven, the sink...it had all been there, but apparently hidden behind the detritus of stored junk that had built up over the years of previous owners. Surprisingly it was clean but for a little dust.

“That doesn’t mean you can stay with us. Once we get to the next system...”

Gritty was already in the process of wiping off, gesturing as the cleaning was done.

“You’re right, cooked meals would be more economical,” the Mandalorian admitted. “And I do spend too much at cantinas where the food is overpriced and...wait, but that’s a strategy, you can’t get good information if you don’t at least buy something cheap – no, I always get him something good like soup or porridge and – what, he doesn’t like soup and just eats it because he’s hungry? How do you know that?”

Gritty shrugged and looked to the Child who gave the Mandalorian a stern look.

“Okay. No more soup.”

Both the Child and Gritty gave him a different look.

“Okay, soup only when it’s cold, no soup when it’s warm. All right?”

The Child beamed.

“But where I go, he goes. That won’t change.”

Gritty shrugged again and pointed, gesturing. 

“...yes, I would like a sandwich.”

The Child clapped little hands together eagerly.

*****

After he ate alone in his quarters, the Mandalorian went back to the controls of the ship, setting the Child in the seat beside him. Gritty ate alone too, or so he guessed; he had no idea what was going on in the back galley of the ship. He felt strange, in a way he didn’t recognize, but then the proximity alarm went up and he sighed; his life left little time for reflection. 

“Strap yourself in, kid,” his voice was cool and calm despite the nerves he felt. He leaned over to make sure the Child was secured, but his mind was elsewhere. What could it be that was coming at them out here in the depths of space? And here he was without a functioning hyperdrive and likely unable to outrun whatever was after them, whether it was Imperial, New Republic, pirates, another bounty hunter, that Wookie whose brother he had killed (not his fault but how often was it his fault?), that very unfriendly mucous farming commune…

And those were just the top six that he considered the most troublesome. He did not think too hard about his enemies, real or probable. By now there were too many to count and besides, if he had a credit for every enemies list he showed up on…

The Child clapped hands together cheerfully in anticipation, wiggling in the seat, and the Mandalorian wished that he felt the same amount of confidence that the Child seemed to feel.

The proximity alarm intensified.

“Okay.” He raised his voice. “We have incoming, Gritty.”


	6. The Pirates

“Gritty! Better hold on or come up front and strap in.”

No answer, but he didn’t expect any. 

A moment later, visual confirmation lit up the screen, blinking bright on a green grid.

Pirates. The Mandalorian heaved a sigh, though not of relief. Fast, light ships that he could not hope to outrun. Three of them, and moving in formation, the kind that suggested blacklisted ex-Imperials that had found new careers as pirates out in the Outer Rim, harassing ships and dodging the likes of the New Republic. They would either disable his ship and tow it to a nearby base or a parent ship, or to chase him into a trap. The easy part was that they were pirates; the really good pilots usually made their way as mercenaries or smugglers. The hard part was that pirates showed little mercy or compunction. Imperial or New Republic ships had strict protocols and procedures that he knew and could use to his advantage to buy himself some time. Pirates on the other hand, especially ex-Imperials, were just as likely to depressurize a ship by blowing out its windows and killing its crew. Ships and fuel were valuable, and ransoms were rarely paid out on the Outer Rim where the vast majority of the population was too poor to ever leave their planets, much less dream of space flight.

Either way, he wasn’t going to fall for it. He had done this plenty of times before. It would not be too hard to get away, though he recognized that this was much harder to do now that he had the Child. It was easier in the old days to pull off the kind of maneuvers that he’d need to escape. Back then he had nothing to protect but his own life, but now he had to make sure the Child was not hurt.  
Oh, and there was Gritty of course, but Gritty was not his responsibility.

He engaged the acceleration, hearing the slight gliss of the ship’s engines as they sped up. It was time to outmaneuver them. For a pre-Empire ship the Razor Crest was surprisingly maneuverable. They didn’t make them like they used to. Literally, because ships these days were usually patched together by a bunch of droids and not carefully crafted by hand with exquisite perfection in a factory, built by the hundreds.

There were no places to hide out here, no asteroid fields to duck into, no haze from a gas giant to slip into, no planet fly down onto and play that nasty game of find the sandworm over rough terrain, and that made it hard for him. The pirates had chosen their place of attack with care, and as he controlled the ship with one hand, the Mandalorian marked it on the guidance system with the other that this was no longer a safe route to pass through as it had been in the past.

Things changed fast out here in the Outer Rim.

With a quick burst of speed from hot-firing thrusters, he feinted, zipping past one of the pirate ships, the other two hot on his tail. He knew he couldn’t outrun them, but he could at least cause them some trouble by making them outrun their fuel. Professional knowledge: he knew they had to have come some ways away from wherever their base was, and ships that light and fast held little fuel compared to an old patrol craft like the Razor Crest that was built to be self-sufficient over long periods. All he had to do was make sure they couldn’t get a good shot at the cockpit or the engines, and hope that they ran out of fuel before he did.

But trying to dodge them posed a problem. He quickly veered the ship into a tidy spin to try to shake off a particularly pugnacious pirate, wishing he could face them to shoot them and be done with it. But the laser cannons were mounted at the front of the ship near the cockpit and in order to shoot, he’d have to face the pirates directly and risk a depressurization if the windows were shot out. This would not normally be a problem as the beskar armour had enough life support built to get him through it. He had pulled this trick before in the past, and as long as he was strapped in tight to his seat it was not terribly dangerous. All he had to do was make it to an orbiting station for a reglass, and then he could safely go anywhere.

Things were different now though. He did not look to the Child but he could hear the Child’s gurgle of enjoyment as the ship spiraled through space, pirate ships hot on her tail.

Heart pounding, the Mandalorian wondered how long it would take for the pirate ships to run low on fuel as he abruptly reversed the thrusters, sliding the ship into a sharp halt to let the pirate ships overshoot him before jerking the ship into a different direction. He was surprised this maneuver worked; it seemed that whoever piloted the pirate ships had no more skill than an average Imperial freight pilot. Yet despite their lack of skill, they followed him with inexorable tenacity, just waiting for him to fuck up, and the Mandalorian knew that this was going to be that age-old game of Who Fucks Up First.

He was very familiar with this game. It had been one he had been playing almost his entire adult life.

Just as he was about to see if he could pull off a maneuver that would herd them one into the other and cause a vicious shunt, to his surprise, a pirate ship suddenly dropped out of the fight. It was as if its engine had cut out, the last push from their thrusters sending them into an uncontrolled spin out into the depths of space.

“That was odd,” he muttered to himself, teeth gritted, as he tried to buy himself some time to figure out if there was another maneuver that could be done with the two remaining ships, and then suddenly another pirate ship dropped out, this time cruising in a smooth linear line toward the dim light of a not-so-distant star. Only this time, the Mandalorian had seen the pulse of bright energy that had knocked the ship’s engines out. The only thing that could have caused that was an ion cannon. 

This was a serious problem. He needed to buy some time if he was going to figure out who was shooting at pirates too. Another bounty hunter? Imperials? New Republic? As he maneuvered the ship past the last pirate, he checked the navigation and sensors. 

Nothing. 

No one else was here but the Razor Crest. 

Brow furrowed, the Mandalorian tried to reason it out as he spun the ship around, trying to keep the last pirate ship on his flank instead of on his rear. What he had seen was distinctly an ion cannon burst. It didn’t make sense, unless somehow the other ship was invisible to detection both visual and electronic and- 

“Oh.” 

Surprised, the Mandalorian watched as the last pirate ship suddenly dropped out too. This time he had direct visual of the ship, just for a second before it veered off into deep space and it looked like…

“Is that frosting?”

By the time he had recalculated the navigation and set the Razor Crest back on course, the Child was asleep, still strapped in tight. He unpinned his cape, draping it over the Child, tucking the warm fabric around the Child’s diminutive frame. Small creatures lost heat faster than large ones, he remembered, an old lesson from a time so long ago he could hardly remember it, more of the memory of a memory. He would take the Child to sleep properly downstairs soon in the heated compartment of his private chambers, but there was something he had to do first.

He walked back into the back. Gritty was there, taking off that outsized black helmet and tucking it into the black duffel bag.

“That was you, wasn’t it?”

Gritty shrugged apologetically and nodded.

“I knew there was a rear cannon but I didn’t know that it worked.”

Grity mimed the motion of repair, pointing to a set of tools that had been laid out neatly.

“While I was outrunning the pirates?”

Gritty nodded.

“How...okay. Maybe that makes sense? If you’re strapped in and move with the ship but how did you get enough torque to...sure, I suppose if you use the plasma wrench as a really big screwdriver and then hit it with the photon hammer, it would work to- I didn’t know you could do that with a carbon chisel, did you really- But what about the frosting? How did you jam up their engines with frosting?”

Gritty gestured eloquently but in a way that denied further questions.

“Ah,” The Mandalorian said, even though it answered nothing. “But I know it wasn’t an ion cannon before.”

Gritty pointed at the tools and again began to gesture.

“Wait, so you rerouted power back to the engines? So the ship would have more power for speed and then with the remaining power, you- Wait, no, that is not how ion cannons work, Gritty and you kno-” 

Gritty signaled and gestured frantically, with a speed that veered into nonsense, before throwing two furry hands up into the air and spinning around frantically until falling over in an exhausted heap.

The Mandalorian threw up his hands in his own gesture of frustration. “Fine. All right. Fine. It was a laser cannon but now it’s an ion cannon that also shoots frosting sometimes. Somehow. Even if that’s not how ion cannons or frosting works.”

Gritty got up off the floor, dusting off orange fur and nodded cheerfully. It seemed if that grinning visage could be any grinnier, it would be.

The Mandalorian sighed. “Time to get some rest. Take the back room in the top deck. Don’t use it much for anything other than storage, might as well get some use out of it. But only until we get to the next system. I’ll be downstairs. Don’t touch the controls, I’ll know.”

Gritty nodded in a calm, serene manner, or as much calm and serenity as those googly eyes and that fixed, open-mouthed smile could evince.

After settling the Child down in the little hammock he had set up, the Mandalorian began to take off his armour. Without the weight of the beskar, he felt lighter than he had in a long time. He always felt strangely vulnerable without it, and he checked once more if the door to his quarters was locked and barricaded. It was.

After polishing his armour, putting his clothes in the sanitizing unit and cleaning up himself, Din laid down on his narrow bed, going through the exercises that he had learned as a child, relaxing every muscle, breathing calmly to the slow-tapping beat of his foot to let go the day’s fight. But something felt strange, different, and he realized that it was that same weird feeling that he had earlier before the dog fight.

Now that he felt it again, he realized what it was. This was the first time in a long time where he didn’t feel hungry or thirsty, where he wasn’t living on that knife-edge of fear knowing that he needed to escape. 

And for a while he wasn’t sure of what any of this meant, but he was too tired to think about it further and so he pulled the blanket over his head and dozed off in a deep, dreamless sleep.


	7. The Offer

“Have you seen someone like me?” The Mandalorian asked, and when again the answer was no, he nodded. The disappointment was a familiar companion, and he leaned against the cold metal of the edge of the bar, feeling it settle into his guts as he breathed. 

Gritty sat at a table behind him, the Child glumly looking at yet another bowl of soup. But it was all that he could afford, and they needed the information that a cheap meal at the local cantina could buy. Not that this particular meal was all that cheap; this system was apparently pretty prosperous, so much so that the filched food was worth nothing here. And yet the bone broth cost a pretty penny, though it was the cheapest thing on the menu. 

It was the Way. Well, a way. A very useful way to get information, and the Mandalorian was not about to go changing his habits just because someone didn’t much like bone broth.

Since Ruqke, the problems seemed to pile up. The hyperdrive needed repair. He had left it in the hands of a mechanic he knew by reputation, but he didn’t have the credits to pay in full, even after taking into account the credits Gritty had paid him for passage. Plus, they were still in the same system that the Free City of Ruqke belonged to, meaning that it was not safe for Gritty to be here long. There was no way of hiding a creature that large and that orange; no matter how big a planet was, there was no way to be inconspicuous. 

But what would fix this would be a job, a good paying one that would see him through for a few more parsecs.

“Got any work?”

The bartender laughed, tentacles a-jiggle. “You don’t look like the dishwashing type.”

The Mandalorian paused. “I suppose not.”

“Just kidding, Mando. You wanna see the list of bounties?” The bartender reached under the bar and pulled out a chipped and scratched datapad. “Just have a look.”

The Mandalorian took the datapad, setting the parameters for the search to the system, waiting as it slowly loaded. Most weren’t worth the credits, too far away to bother. And then a number came up, one that was so big that it made his eyes widen.

But before he could inquire further, the datapad turned off with a click. 

“Gritty?” The Mandalorian wondered, as Gritty plucked the unit out of his hands, handing it back to the bartender. Gritty gestured for him to follow, and so the Mandalorian did, followed by the Child in the floating pod.

The cantina was built with an airlock, like a ship, and they paused in this entry. Gritty fitted a shiny black helmet over that large fuzzy head, winding a black scarf with that strange sigil in orange and white around a thickly furred neck, straightening that long beard over the folds of cloth. 

The Child looked up at the Mandalorian.

“I’m going to close the pod. I know you don’t like it, but it’s too cold outside. It’s already well below the freezing point of water, which is well above the freezing point of those little ears.”

The Child grumbled in dismay but closed the pod with little hands.

The Mandalorian hit the switch for the airlock, closing the entry into the cantina and opening it to the outdoors. Brilliant white light burst in and the Mandalorian was glad that his helmet display transitioned smoothly; without it, he certainly would have been momentarily blinded by the bright sunlight. It was a clear hard day, cold and brilliant, and the Mandalorian could feel the icy wind even through layers of thermal protective clothing that kept him at a steady temperature.

“Look, I don’t know what you want, Gritty, but if we’re going to get off this planet, I need to make some money for the repairs...” the Mandalorian began, but Gritty shushed him. Waving over to a humanoid that had been waiting outside for them, swathed in layers of clothes and scarves so that only the humanoid’s eyes showed, Gritty made a show of introducing them with exaggerated gestures.

“Hey, Pip Pipeepip’s the name, and who might you be?”

“Just a Mandalorian,” the Mandalorian said. 

“Well Justa, pleased to meet you. Your friend said you were interested in some work?”

“I’m not sure if Gritty should be speaking for me-”

“I’m a local agent for a sport that’s played around here during the cold season. Not the really cold season when molecular motion starts to slow down but you know, now when it’s mild. If you’re not afraid of a little sweat, we pay a little for contestants.”

“Numbers.” 

Pip quoted him the numbers. 

“No. Not worth it. My time’s worth more than that,” the Mandalorian said.

“Wait. Last man standing wins the pot.”

“How much?”

Pip’s eyes narrowed in amusement, quoting a number that made the Mandalorian’s eyes widen. That would be just enough to fix the hyperdrive.

“But that’s only if you win. Still interested?”

“All right. What would I have to do?”

The Mandalorian never thought that it would have come to this. Unarmed, alone on the vast white expanse of ice, his boots gripping onto the slick ice, his visor display showing two dozen foes, the gleaming plates of his beskar armour hidden beneath layers of fabric (and of course he would not have taken it off; they would have had to peel it from his stiff corpse).

But there was Gritty at his side.

Both took a step back as a massive squarish droid rattled by them, leaving the surface of the ice behind in its wake even slicker and smoother. As it passed, kicking up a hazy cloud of ice particles, he could see their opponents in the distance waddling closer, each chonky being belted with a different color.

“Hutt Wrestling,” the Mandalorian sighed.


	8. Hutt Wrestling

All his money problems and it had come down to Hutt Wrestling, the sport of low-caste juvenile Hutts and rotund members of other humanoid-ish species. And not even actual Hutt Wrestling but a ridiculous parody done on slippery ice meant for laughs, where humanoid beings of varying sizes dressed up in bulbous Hutt costumes and tried to knock each other over. This was not even the sport of choice for the day, but a diversion for the crowd halfway through the game and a funny one at that.

But he needed the money, the Mandalorian reminded himself. And there was no reason not to make money this way. It was easier than chasing some bounty around the planet, far less dangerous, and much cheaper. After all, they had merely walked to this place, no fuel or speeder hires were necessary. Besides, there were no real Hutt Wrestlers in this crowd, which made the sport more likely to be easy. 

The Mandalorian patted the heavy bulging padding that had gone over his entire body, making it appear as though he were as bloated as a Hutt. A gray fabric belt went around the chonky costume; everyone had a different color. Even Gritty was in one of these padded costumes, which worn over the tubby belly of padding Gritty already had, made the orange creature appear as though a perfect sphere, a planetoid of chaotic energy. 

It made the Mandalorian wonder how often Wookies came to play this game, because it seemed that only a being the size of a Wookie would have worn this costume before. And if it left the costume smelling like Wookie. Not a bad smell, mind, he was rather fond of it, but a distinctive one nonetheless.

The cold in this sporting arena had been tamed so that it was almost pleasant; there was some sort of atmospheric control that had been set over this ice lake, to keep it from the unbearably freezing temperatures of the rest of this part of the planet. In the distance, he could see the Child, bundled up in the Mandalorian’s own cape. From here it seemed that the Child was no more than a pair of wide dark eyes watching from the sidelines in the shelter of the floating pod. 

Two of them together and the odds were better, but not great. Most of the Hutt Wrestling contestants were already disqualifying themselves with hoots and jeers from the crowd as they slipped and tripped, but a few seemed like they knew what they were doing, moving easily over the ice. The Mandalorian himself had some reasonable amount of experience and boots that gave him an edge on grip, but it was a different thing when trying to knock the other person over. 

It would be up to him to win. Otherwise, they might be Hutt Wrestling on ice for ages before they could make enough money to get his ship back from the mechanic. At least, the Mandalorian thought, at least Gritty would get some token pay. That might pay for some of the expensive food on this mineral-rich planet, once their ship’s stores ran out.

He looked up at Gritty by his side. Gritty, who towered over him and was about the height of a Wookie, was by far too tall to be Hutt Wrestling. The strange creature would be at a disadvantage; a lower center of gravity and a good feel for the other person’s balance would win the game. All the very great Hutt Wrestlers were both short and round. 

One of the more experienced Hutt Wrestlers seemed to have exactly the same idea and came toddling toward Gritty with a conniving gleam in eyes just barely visible through a caged black helmet.

“Careful,” the Mandalorian said, and he darted out in front of Gritty with calculated momentum, knocking their opponent over to great acclaim from the audience. As he righted himself, he caught a glimpse of Gritty giving him a thumbs up.

“I’ll do my best to protect you,” the Mandalorian said, but Gritty waved him off, crouching into a classic Hutt Wrestling pose, the front forceout, with a determination and elegance he had only seen in the best of Hutt Wrestlers. 

The Mandalorian felt a jolt of surprise. He could not have guessed that Gritty would be capable of this but then again, it seemed more and more to him that Gritty was a being far surpassing his expectations. A being of orange chaos and buttercream frosting and yet at the same time a true warrior.

It was like any other melee he had been in. Cautious foes eyed each other, sizing each other up and then at some unknown, unseen signal, the surface of the ice descended into chaos. Beings grappled each other, knocking each other over onto the ice. 

A green-belted contender stomped cautiously over the slick ice, challenging him, and he grappled with them briefly before rolling them over his bent knee onto the ice. Strength was certainly important but most of these contenders seemed to have put their faith in strength over principles of momentum and it showed. Contenders went flying by on the ice; the Mandalorian side-stepped more than a few failed wrestlers until suddenly it was just him, Gritty, and a handful of others. Yellow, blue, pink, teal, fuschia, and cranberry, and the contenders stood panting as the dejected losers clomped off the ice.

One stood out; his belt was white, and Gritty pointed to the white-belted wrestler, gesturing to the Mandalorian that this was the long-standing champion, or perhaps it was the champion of the last fight. Whatever the case, this being would be the one that they would have to win against. Gritty mimed taking on the champion but the Mandalorian shook his head. If Gritty put up a distraction, he suggested, he would do the dirty work.

If that fixed grimace of a smile could be bigger, somehow it was.

Googly eyes a-jiggling, Gritty started at a run for the closest two, Yellow and Cranberry. As he gained momentum, the two tried to make a break for it, but then Gritty clotheslined both of them with outstretched arms, tumbling forward.

Horrified, the Mandalorian realized that they were about to lose half their odds of winning. But then Gritty tumbled through the air in a forward flip, landing neatly on both feet, sliding into Pink who was knocked over into disqualification by Gritty’s momentum. Gritty stepped away from the furious and cursing Pink, bowing to the crowd, raising his arms to draw the crowd’s cheers as if he were a prize gladiator in a Geonosian arena. 

The Mandalorian did not have much time to admire Gritty’s work; he had bigger problems. White seemed to have a second sense as to who was most dangerous of the opponents (or perhaps it was the beskar helmet? Nah...) and tried to outflank him, but his helmet sensor warned him just milliseconds before White knocked into him.

If he hadn’t been wearing beskar, it probably would have broken bone. If he hadn’t been trained in combat since he was young and knew how to side-step such force, he probably would have been knocked down flat. But with a spin, arms outstretched to dissipate the momentum, he caught his balance at the last second and took a careful step forward on the ice.

White came at him again, changing direction with a precise pivot directly into a charge and this time the Mandalorian feinted one way and then the other and when White missed him, he grabbed White by the belt of the costume, using White’s own momentum to trip up the other wrestler.

And yet White did not fall.

Panting, the Mandalorian retreated briefly, checking out the frozen lake to see who was still left standing. Blue and Teal were both out; Blue was limping away while the crowd roared. And Teal was being pulled off the ice, the mesh front of a black helmet absolutely caked in...cake. 

Where Gritty got the cakes, the Mandalorian just did not know. 

So that left Fuschia, who Gritty was stalking down over the ice. 

The Mandalorian felt a momentary pang of sympathy for Fuschia. But Fuschia was no fool and immediately sat down on the ice, self-disqualifying to avoid Gritty, who nevertheless gave the contemptible Fuschia a good kick in the seat once Fuschia got back up to leave, chasing Fuschia off the ice. 

Proximity alarm. No time to watch another’s battle, there was as usual only time to fight one’s own. The Mandalorian leaned back quickly, ducking the blow, and came up under White’s arm on the other side. 

But as he had ducked, he had caught a glimpse of White’s obscured eyes under the helmet and twisted away, nearly overturning himself in the process. 

White had no eyes. In fact, White had no face.

Suddenly, White’s speed, strength, balance, and precision made sense. In fact, it was no surprise that the white-belted wrestler was the perpetual champion; White had literally been built for this.

“A droid!” The Mandalorian shouted to Gritty, taking a few steps back from White. “The champion’s a droid!”

But Gritty was far away, across the ice, too far to help him.

His voice was lost in the cheering of the crowd as they began to chant.

Hutt Wrestling Droid! Hutt Wrestling Droid!

So they knew, the Mandalorian thought bitterly. And all this talk about winning money was just a ploy to watch strangers hurt themselves and get maimed on the ice by their unbeatable champion. 

He touched his wrist; even if he wasn’t armed, there were still whistling birds...but then he took a breath and remembered that anger and vengeful thinking in battle would get him killed or hurt, and besides that he realized he probably wouldn’t get paid if he broke their expensive droid in a way outside of the rules. 

So he would just have to abide by the rules and win.

The Mandalorian turned to face the droid.


	9. The Winner(s)

An icy wind blew across the frozen lake, scattering flakes of ice that sparkled in the air like broken glass. The air seemed so bright and hard that the Mandalorian felt like the whole world itself was frozen in carbonite.

Time and the droid both seemed to move slowly, and the Mandalorian crouched, padding bunched up before him, taking the same stance that Gritty had taken earlier, the front forceout. Of the 82 possible techniques he could use, there were 20 moves that accounted for 96% of wins. And of those 20, this particular technique won 32.4% of all bouts. 

The odds weren’t great, but they never were.

The Mandalorian was ready.

As the droid came at him and the roaring thundering of the crowd seemed to dwarf every explosion he had been in (and there had been so many), he caught a glimpse of the Child wrapped in his cape, pointing at him with excitement in the distance and he knew in this very moment that he had to win or else-

He side-stepped and feinted again, this time with the goal of tossing the droid over his shoulder as it came at him.

And then time stood still as a flash of orange appeared before him. 

Gritty was going by fast, faster than any humanoid could run. Gritty caught him by the waist in that very second he had begun to toss the droid over his shoulder, and swung him hard so that the droid did not have a chance to grab onto the Mandalorian, flipping over onto the ice with a crack of heavy machinery.

The crack spread and the crowd’s yelling took on a frantic, bloodthirsty tone. Still hanging onto the Mandalorian, Gritty began to run and almost immediately they were going far faster than any run could be, Gritty’s beard trailing in the wind. It took a breath before the Mandalorian realized that Gritty’s shoes had hidden knives in their soles that helped him slide along the ice as it cracked and broke behind them.

The Mandalorian looked back. 

With a roar, a huge tentacled beast appeared out of the water, gulping down the droid before disappearing back into the lake. That large rectangular ice-surfacing droid reappeared, moving placidly to refreeze the surface with quick blasts of cold so that once again, the creature of the lake was sealed beneath a tomb of glossy slick ice.

There was a hush of silence, and then a roar of excited pleasure. The crowd had lost their favorite, but gained something else, a novelty.

Setting the Mandalorian down, Gritty bowed, blowing kisses as they slid to a halt on stable ice near the contestants’ entry where they had entered the lake. The whole battle had probably lasted no more than ten minutes, but it had felt like a lifetime.

“Putting the finale in the middle,” Pip laughed from behind a pile of twined scarves, meeting them as they walked back onto land. “Good going, good going.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the Mandalorian snarled.

“Normally the losing team gets eaten by the lake monster at the end. We call her Bruno. She’s been there a very long time. Started off small, would only eat children’s teams in the beginning but now she’s moved onto bigger and better meals. You would have been eaten up too if your friend here hadn’t saved you. Droid’s real heavy, goes through the ice with no problem. We still need to work on that.”

“Ah.” The words the Mandalorian had for the promoter were far too vicious to be said before a viewing audience, especially one on Disney+.

“Well, paytime.” Pip said, holding up a transfer unit.

The credits were transferred, and the Mandalorian looked up from his gauntlet. “This is twice what was promised.”

“Two winners, you and your friend here. Who doesn’t have a device that accepts transfers. You’ll have to work it out with your buddy, but our business is done here. Good day to you, sir.” 

Pip turned away and the Mandalorian watched the oddly stiff way that the promoter walked. 

“Gritty, you think that was a droid too?”

Gritty shrugged.

*****

The mechanic had been paid off, and with Gritty’s agreement, the Mandalorian had authorized some more much-needed maintenance with the rest of the money they had won. Thankfully, though the Razor Crest was still in the shop, they were able to stay in it. With hot dinners to warm up around, the three sat on the floor of the upper galley where the Mandalorian watched the Child eat cooked eggs, some slices of crisply cooked fatty meat, and something strange that Gritty had made that looked something like a pancake but with a grid-like pattern. It seemed that sometime before they landed on this planet, Gritty had jury rigged a kind of hot press to cook these strange cakes. From what, the Mandalorian couldn’t tell exactly, the ship had picked up all sorts of detritus over the years. All the Mandalorian could figure out was that it was non-stick.

“No, I won’t eat now. I’ll eat later. Once this one’s done. It doesn’t matter if the food is getting cold.”

The Child ate with gusto, without the hesitation of the past, and the Mandalorian felt a strange sense of regret. It seemed that the Child ate better and more happily when Gritty was cooking, and it made him wonder how often the Child had felt hunger when it had been just the two of them. 

A sense of guilt, he thought. That was what he felt, a sense of guilt. 

Gritty set an orange furry hand gently on the Child’s head, taking the empty plate away that the Child handed over. Gritty also took the Mandalorian’s plate, setting it on the stove to warm up.

“Thank you, Gritty. Say thanks,” the Mandalorian said to the Child.

The Child babbled something cheerful and incoherent.

"Good." The Mandalorian patted the Child’s head as well.

Gritty gestured as plates were cleaned. How Gritty managed it without getting hands wet or dirty was another mystery, but not one that the Mandalorian had enough energy to deal with. Gritty’s mystery’s were Gritty’s own.

“Yes, it’s true. Growing brains do need high density foods. And eggs do make good cheap protein. We’ll have to keep buying more. No, we won’t keep chickens or porgs. Yes, I know that porgs and their eggs are good eating, but no, there’s no room in here. Things like that need daylight and fresh air. If we need eggs and have money, we can buy eggs. Otherwise cheap nutrient paste or protein cubes are fine. What do you mean, you don’t like those? No one does. You eat it to survive.”

Gritty turned back to tilt a large orange head at the Mandalorian. Googly eyes wobbled eloquently.

“...I suppose there is more to life than survival,” The Mandalorian admitted. 

Gritty handed the Mandalorian a plate with hot food on it, which the Mandalorian took.

He could feel the warmth of the plate through his gloves. Hot, in a soothing and comforting way, but not hot enough to burn.

“Thanks,” he said. “Not just for the food. But for today. Everything.”

Gritty patted him on the shoulder with a fuzzy hand. 

Squeaky squeak.

Turning away, the Mandalorian quickly retreated to his quarters to eat. 

In the quiet comfort of his own quarters, he took off his helmet with a sigh, setting it down. He sat down slowly, feeling the aches and bruises catching up to him as the adrenaline wore off. Slipping off his gloves, he warmed his hands on the bottom of the heated plate, before settling into what amounted to his first hot meal in…

And suddenly a strange feeling came over Din as he realized that he could not remember how long it had been since he had eaten a hot meal like this. He couldn’t even remember what it might have been, much less when it was.

The food warmed him up, chasing the chill from bones that he had not realized were so cold.


	10. The Job

“Hey, Mando,” the bartender hefted the bulky datapad, wobbling it temptingly on an outstretched tentacle. “Heard there’s a nearby bounty that pays pretty good, interested?”

Unusual, the Mandalorian thought. He had come to check on the bounty list, thinking to make a little to stay ahead while they were idle in port, and if nothing else, to slake his curiosity. Last time he had seen the list, there had been a sizable bounty on it and he wanted to know who was being sought to the tune of tens of millions of Calamari Flan. It was probably impossible, a mad suicidal dream, but that kind of money would spend anywhere. Hard luck that this planet was still on credits but those couldn’t be spent much farther than this system. On the other hand, Calamari in that magnitude would do more than let him travel anywhere in the galaxy to continue his quest, it would buy him freedom. He could put the leash of the Guild and the bounty hunting days behind him.

A quiet place, he thought, a quiet, safe place to raise the Child. If he could not find the Child’s people, it would stand to reason that he could be those people. And a child was not meant to be raised alone, children needed more than one man could manage. They needed brothers and sisters in arms, shield uncles and spear aunts, strong clans for friends and allies. So this could be a place where other foundlings could be given a new life, away from the war and death and strife that destroyed their homes. He would use the money to find other Mandalorians, buy a big piece of secure land and together, build a community where they could all live under the open sky. Together, they could bring foundlings into the elegant simplicity of the Way. 

Then a new Fighting Corps could be raised, perhaps the Child would choose the path of the Creed. He imagined the Child for a moment, a strong and valiant fighter in gleaming beskar marked with the sign of the mudhorn, and a rush of emotion went through him that left him blinking, eyes burning.

Whatever might happen, wherever they could make a home, it would not be Mandalore, but was it not true that wherever a Mandalorian went, they carried something of Mandalore with them? They could build their own Mandalore, together. 

He set the thoughts aside. A pleasant dream but not one to linger on when there was work to be done. 

The bartender had waved him down as he entered the cantina, before he could even brush the snow off his shoulders. He didn’t remember the being as one who was particularly friendly, but then again most cantinas were not exactly the most welcoming to Mandalorians and what they meant for the clientele. Meaning, mostly chasing customers off, given the rough lowlife types that skulked in the dismal and dim light of cantinas all over the galaxy.

“Bone br-”

“Nah, you’re good. You don’t need to buy anything, this tip’s on the house.” But before the Mandalorian could take the datapad, the bartender tucked it back under the counter.

The Mandalorian said nothing, waiting.

“Look, if you want me to be honest with you...” The bartender leaned in, lowering his voice. “Got a problem with this person who’s been...let’s say, trying to put the squeeze on me. Yeah, you know, that thing with the, whatchacallit, protection money. Yeah, that’s right. Protection money.”

The Mandalorian was silent. 

“Just found out they’re wanted and I’d rather not pay up. You get me?”

This was the problem when you didn’t go through the Guild, the Mandalorian thought. No pucks, no professionalism. It was all dependent on whoever was willing to pay. It reminded him of all the horror stories he had heard about jobs from the public bounty lists. Ambushes, maimings, decapitations, treachery, _Gungans_...

The Mandalorian suppressed a shudder, listening in silence to the bartender go on about the local protection racket without responding, considering his options before replying. “Then you’ll have to pay me too.”

“But won’t you get a bounty anyway?”

“I don’t have to take this bounty.”

“Sheesh,” the bartender sighed. “Okay, let’s talk credits.”

“Flan or no deal. Half up front.” 

“Credits are good here! You paid with credits just the other day!” But then the barkeeper saw the shift in the Mandalorian’s shoulders and quickly spoke before he turned to leave. “Uh...right you are! Good point, who knows what tomorrow brings. With a ship like that, you’re probably not staying here forever, yeah? Fine, let’s talk Flan.”

*****

Moonrise. The comforting and familiar heft of the Amban phase-pulse blaster, gripped lightly in his gloved hands. Wind blew across the barren winter landscape, bare of trees or plants, and the Mandalorian wondered what it looked like in the spring, or if there was no spring to be had in a place like this. But there must be spring, he thought, after all, the squat buildings here were built above ground. Most ice planets kept their buildings underground in areas of solid rock, to save on heating and insulation. 

The moon cast a cold light across the icy waste, and the Mandalorian could hear the snap and flutter of his cape as the wind whistled around him like the inhuman cries of distant feral Ewoks. His footsteps crunched through the hard crust of pristine snow. Blue shadows lined hollows that resembled the curve of bone in a skull’s eyesockets, and the Mandalorian felt the tension rising as they walked into the unknown.

He glanced to his left. There, the looming figure of Gritty at his side, face hidden in shadow. The moonlight stripped Gritty of color, fur ruffling in the icy wind. Gritty was carrying that oversized cannon slung easily over a shoulder. Between them the Child in the enclosed pod, floating along.

He was glad not to be alone. Bounty hunting was dangerous work and it was good to have backup.

They were now just out of town, looking for a particular shack that the bounty was holed up in. It wasn’t far enough to justify hiring speeders, but it was far enough to make it a long walk, and so they did.

“Yes, I take the kid with me. No, it’s not safe. Why are you complaining? You’re just a passenger.” The Mandalorian said, irritated, as Gritty gestured sharply at him.

The Child made some noises of outrage from inside the floating pod.

“Not you too,” the Mandalorian sighed. “Wait, did just you say the kid doesn’t like going to seedy bars at night? You did. How did you- no, you couldn’t have heard it, the kid doesn’t-” 

And then before the Mandalorian could continue, he saw something on his visual display, something moving in the dark shadow of a distant building, something that was slow and deliberate, and he stopped, holding up a hand to halt them.

He switched his visual to thermal, and could just barely see the warm outline of a humanoid, crouched in waiting around the corner of the building. Thermal protection could not hide much from a practiced eye and the highly sensitive sensors built into his helmet.

Gritty threw up exasperated hands.

“I know,” the Mandalorian growled. “You’ve been saying that all day. But it’s not an ambush-”

Blasters warming up, like a chorus of electronic birds. The sound prickled in his ears and the Mandalorian looked around, realizing that they had been surrounded.

He bit back an epithet. “Okay, so it’s an ambush,” he muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/13/2021: I'm a bit behind on writing so no update this week. Hopefully a new chapter soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Detailed notes upon completion.


End file.
